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Yaroslav Gerzhedovich. “Radio Galaxy”.

The rain doesn’t come, it delays and lingers behind flimsy, gray clusters, as if it spyed from a corner vertex on the right moment to make its dramatic entrance. It has always liked the drama, that’s what I think. Or that, or it just has stopped to believe in this land, stepmother of plundering and devastations. What is the used of pouring itself on plains divided bulkily in lots, getting stuck among concrete and metal, laying on crusts of asphalt until decaying hopelessly?
“This looks like a rain to me!”, shouts a voice in the distance, and another voice answers something unintelligible. Steps walking away in a run, hurried by getting to some place, or trying to escape from that eager premonition. The greyish consistence of the sky remains unaltered, silent, detached from the gossips about omens. Framed into the transparent rectangle of my window, it seems a brief portion of the belly of some gigantic cetacean gliding over the world, moving with the maddening slowness that only its size allows. I watch it passing by, sliding on the clear hatch of my room-ship, and I wait.
Nothing. Then I remember. An image, the feeling of an image, of a memory. Not mine, impossible. Hiroshima. A damp cellar, dark, hands rummaging a shaved head, maybe, the madness of love and the awakening of one’s conscience, lying on a pallet, hearing for the first time the sounds leaking from a window facing the street: feet, chatting, life going on despite all. Radioactive rain.
Radio Active, says another voice. Another weather forecast, here or anywhere around the orb. How many will wait a rain with this same eagerness? Something that washes away the miseries of the world, just a little, that renews some hopes, green hopes. But the rain delays its arriving, it takes its time, analyzing, let’s see what happens, let’s wait a bit. Maybe now. Maybe never. Does it worth lavishing such a miracle?
And at another place another cellar, another hands rummaging, in the middle of another devastation. Radio Active, the news of the hour, and the horror leaking from the distance, through that talking window, sooty with insanity and desolation. A brief piece of the world gliding over it, dark, dense, slow, hurling down unstoppably, this is it, the rain falls, radioactive, scorching, from the windows of the soul to empty palms searching among the rubbles, don’t praying anymore, because the brief drops of their pain aren’t enough to ease the sore of a fire that will be never burned out.

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